The Only Rule That Matters
by forsciencejohn
Summary: John has pretty much one rule for the flat, which of course Sherlock doesn't want to follow. Fluffly one-shot done for a school assignment.


John was mad at him.

Well, maybe not mad. But he was stubborn. Which was almost as good.

He knew that Sherlock was a scientist as well as a consulting detective, and he respected that. It was part of him, part of what made John love him, and he really didn't mind Sherlock doing his experiments in the flat. He had actually grown quite fond of the clutter that had accumulated on their kitchen table over the past year—petri dishes and microscope slides and bits of paper with half-formed ideas and chemical equations scribbled onto them. But he also knew that Sherlock was a little—okay, maybe more than a _little_—eccentric, and some of his experiments were not what one would call "normal" or (on occasion) "sanitary." And they had set a rule for these types of experiments early on in their relationship: limbs and other body parts in the fridge were fine, but no organic material, dead or alive or in-between, was allowed to remain on the kitchen table when Sherlock wasn't actively working on the project related to it. It was a rule John followed very strictly, and at least once a month he would send gentle reminders Sherlock's way, things like "Please take the raccoon carcass down to the dumpster" or "If you've done something to the milk throw it out, otherwise put them in the fridge next to the thumbs." Most of the time Sherlock would comply right away, and on occasion he would try to argue with John, but in the end they both knew that Sherlock was going to do what he said. Because really, it was hard to watch TV or have sex or even just have a conversation when the whole of their flat smelled like decaying corpses.

So when John had come home from the surgery earlier that day and seen the mess on their kitchen table—which consisted of various limbs floating in several buckets of liquids of various colors and scents, more than one of which he feared was toxic—he hadn't even thought twice. Determining that this experiment could be added to the list of "things Sherlock got bored with after 15 minutes," he walked out of the kitchen and found his lover curled up in his armchair, engrossed in an uninteresting-looking book.

"Sherlock, could you please empty those buckets into the sink and put the body parts in the fridge."

Sherlock didn't even look up from his drawing as he answered. "It was for an experiment."

"Yes I know, but now that you're finished with it they need to be taken care of. They're stinking up the flat."

"Not yet."

"No, _yes_ yet, because you've abandoned it anyway and there's no point in keeping them around."

"I might return to it later."

"You know perfectly well that you won't."

"Well I _might_."

John sighed with impatience. They both knew damn well that Sherlock would never even think about that project again, and that he didn't have any use for the buckets of stinking chemicals anymore. However, throughout the entire exchange Sherlock's eyes had never left his book, making John's death glare utterly ineffective.

_Time for a new tactic_, he thought to himself.

"Fine," he said with an air of indifference, "But I'm ignoring you until they're disposed of." Sherlock merely waved his hand at John in acknowledgement, and John shrugged, settling on the armchair opposite and picking the newspaper up off the side table.

And now, three hours after "The Promise" (as John was mentally calling it), he had to try hard not to let a smug smile play across his lips. At first it had been easy for Sherlock, being ignored, as he had been utterly focused on his book. But after about half an hour he started making little comments, things he would say to John on any normal day: "What's for dinner tonight?" "I'm thirsty, I want tea." "Reach into my pocket and grab my phone, I need you to text Lestrade." After his initial huffs of frustration that John was actually taking The Promise seriously, he had tried his hand at ignoring John back. But gradually he had begun to slip, getting more and more frustrated as his gestures were ignored. He had tried various tactics—touching John's hand, rubbing his shoulders, even kissing him on the cheek—but to no avail; John remained steadfastly focused on his newspaper. John had watched with glee out of the corner of his eye as his boyfriend grew more and more childlike in his anger. Said boyfriend, who was actually in his thirties, was currently stomping around the flat like a five-year old, moving things around and putting things down with excessive force in a way that would have been infuriating if the whole situation hadn't been completely hilarious. John sensed his inevitable victory when Sherlock marched over to him and ripped the newspaper out of his hands, slamming it on the side table and sitting in his lap, facing him in a way that demanded his attention. Sherlock glared at him, boring right into his eyes, and John glared right back, his eyebrows raised and his lips pursed to hold back the raucous laughter that threatened to escape him.

Sherlock's face went through a myriad of emotions as he sat there on John's lap (no doubt uncomfortably, seeing as how he was 6 feet tall and his long, lanky legs were bunched up on either side of John, trapped by the sofa's arm rests). First, there was anger, his eyebrows furrowed and his mouth set in a deep frown in a way that was probably meant to be intimidating but really just came off as adorable. John could practically hear him thinking, _This whole thing is stupid, I don't understand why you have to ignore me_. When John failed to react, his face went slack and pleading—_I promise I'll work on it later, John, I just got bored!_ After a few passive moments he tried to pull off indifference—_Fine then, keep ignoring me, I don't need your attention anyway_—which was what almost made John give way right there, because Sherlock needed more attention than any man he had ever met. Finally, Sherlock's brows furrowed again and the frown returned to his face, but this time his expression looked more resigned than angry. He rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically, dragging himself off of John's lap and stomping off to the kitchen. John allowed himself a triumphant grin as he heard Sherlock clanging around in the kitchen, the sink running and the drain gurgling, and he had to stop himself from laughing a little hysterically as he called, "Don't forget to wash your hands!" He heard Sherlock grumble in consent, and moved to the loveseat and turned on the TV to wait for him to finish.

He was watching some sort of mindless comedy when Sherlock dragged himself into the living room five minutes later, visibly pouting. Sherlock tugged the blanket off of the back of the couch and wrapped it around himself before flopping next to John and lying down vertically. He forcibly cuddled into him, his head resting on John's lap, and John laughed gently before carding his fingers through Sherlock's hair, sort of petting him in a way John knew he liked (though he would never admit it). They were silent for a few moments, the only sound coming from the TV, before Sherlock said abruptly, "This is boring. I want to watch Top Gear." John giggled and leaned down to kiss him on his forehead and murmur into his ear.

"Thank you for cleaning up your mess."

"Yes."

"I love you."

"Top Gear."

"Okay."

And the rest of their evening proceeded amicably.


End file.
